


Under your nose

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Akita Inu, M/M, Transformation, Weredog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home to find a dog with something vaguely familiar about it curled up in John’s chair, with John nowhere to be seen. The dog seems to know him rather well, perhaps a little too well.</p><p>Where is John? Why is there a dog in their home and why do the two things seem so...connected?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short little thing that came out of a dialogue-snippet I did ages ago. I found it again and thought 'eh, it'll cheer me up to write this out' and so I did. It's not meant to be anything other than sweet - oh, and it's AU, obviously.
> 
> No beta or britpicker and my knowledge of werewolf 'lore' is limited, just fyi :)

When Sherlock arrives back home after a day and evening of basically commandeering Molly’s lab at Bart’s – John has a tendency to frown at that, but the girl has _said_ she doesn’t mind – he knows something is off as soon as he steps into the flat. It’s not the furniture; he hardly notices that unless he needs it for whatever reason. Nor is it any kind of smell. If anything, 221B not smelling of _anything_ is what should be alarming.

It takes him only a moment to work out what it is.

It’s the simple fact that John isn’t here; isn’t anywhere in the flat. It’s not that he’s particularly loud but when he’s home, you can always here him somewhere, puttering about , humming, grumbling, tapping the keyboard, snoring, and right now he should be home, making those noises. He should be done with work for the day; there is no case on and no girlfriend to take up time, so he should be home. John has a routine, after all.

For a moment the thought that something might have happened flashes through Sherlock’s mind, but it is dismissed just as quickly. They are not working a case and the criminals they have already caught are locked away. There is nothing that should pose a threat or risk.

Why else wouldn’t he be there? A trip to Tesco’s? Not at this time of night and in any case, he went there...yesterday? The day before? Recently, anyway. No need to go there again so soon.

Sherlock’s musings are cut short by a soft snuffling sort of sound. He whirls around to see where the sound is coming from and frowns at what is before him.

It’s a dog. A medium sized dog with upright standing ears and a coat that at first glance looks white, but has a lot of grey and what one would term blonde in it, is lying curled up on the Union Jack pillow in John’s chair. The snuffling is because it’s asleep. As the detective watches, small noises that are half-whines, half-growls begin to emerge from the animal and one ear twitches as does a paw. It’s dreaming.

The dream doesn’t last long, though, and the dog lets out a sigh and turns onto its side, completely at ease. Nothing about its demeanour indicates that it’s somewhere it shouldn’t be, but then dogs do have a selective blindness to such things.

A part of Sherlock – a childish part normally shoved deep into the back rooms of his Mind Palace – wants very much to reach out and stroke the dog’s fur. Stroke and pet it and take care of it.

Most of him is stuck just looking at the dog, though. The possible reasons for its presence are numerous, but none explains why a dog is here when it shouldn’t be and John is not when he should.

His mind is going back and forth on the matter and therefore it takes him a moment to register that the animal has woken up and is staring back at him with eyes that are disconcertingly intelligent for an animal. Not only that, the eyes are not brown, but rather a dull blue. He vaguely recalls that some dogs do have blue eyes, but are they usually this...murky? Or this _familiar_?

He does not attempt any petting or chatting to it. It is an unfamiliar animal and there is a risk it could react unfavourably to any perceived danger or threat. He can hear his inner John hum in approval; that he has such a thing is something he will vehemently deny if ever asked.

The dog, however, does not seem to share his caution. It sits up slowly, regarding him as it does so and while it does not wag its tail – the curled, bushy appendage does not exactly seem to lend itself to such activities – the eyes seem to hold some mirth as it lets out a small huff that might, had it been human, have been called an amused snort.

“Oh? What’s so amusing, then?” Sherlock asks as if talking to a dog in all seriousness is something everyone does and not just dog owners projecting unto their pets.

If asked, the detective couldn’t tell the one asking what he expects, but it certainly isn’t for the animal to jump down, press itself against his shins for a moment, then pad into the kitchen as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Once there, it looks at him, then seems to glance at the kettle on the counter before looking back at him.

Sherlock looks at it, then decides that he’s had just about enough of this stupidity and with a huff of his own, turns away and throws himself on the couch, coat and all. He closes his eyes almost demonstratively, intending to retreat into his Mind Palace. The dog can do whatever it pleases. It is not his problem. It came on its own; it can leave on its own.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he wakes a bit later, it is still dark outside and something is on his chest. It’s heavy and it’s warm, but the warmth is confined to a relatively small area, so he quickly works out what is has to be. The bloody dog is curled up atop him, apparently beyond comfortable. An attempt to get up is stopped by a low growl and just the indication of claws touching him, so he stops.

“What do you want, then?” he asks, sounding as cross as he feels. He does not want a pet. John might have mentioned something about getting one at some point, but Sherlock is against the idea. He hasn’t the time to take care of an animal and while John would probably being the one feeding it and whatever else, it’d take John’s time away from him. That cannot be tolerated. Ever.

As if in response to his question, the canine nudges his hand with its nose and doesn’t let up until he brings his hand up and begins to card it through the fur that is surprisingly soft for looking so bristly. The dog lets out a contented sigh. He does it again and it nuzzles into his chest. He keeps doing it and it quickly becomes an almost unconscious move, doing it on autopilot.

It is soothing in a way that it probably shouldn’t be. He ought to throw the trespassing animal out on its ear, but he can’t find it in himself to do so. That, on the other hand, is worrying him.

Some time passes in this fashion; Sherlock goes through various experiments he wants to do in his head while the dog appears to fall back asleep. Distracted as he is, though, the detective doesn’t see that in reality, the animal’s eyes are open just a sliver and are watching him. It has a look of achievement about it.

When there is suddenly no longer a pressure on his ribcage, Sherlock presence of mind snaps back and he looks around. He cannot immediately see the dog. Maybe it has gone back to whatever place it has come from?

He hears an unexpected thump and, sitting up to get a clearer view, looks into the kitchen.The counter top is littered with old mugs of tea, a plate or two, general detritus and of course all the lab equipment and experiments Sherlock gets into trouble with John for leaving out.

Amongst it all is the dog, nose pressed against a cupboard door in a bid to push it open, paws placed on the few free spots on the counter. But what surprises the younger Holmes is the fact that it is right in the middle of his equipment and hasn’t broken anything. The thump came from a failed attempt at getting the cupboard door open, if Sherlock is any judge and he usually is.

“Oh, yes. Very impressive,” he says sarcastically, knowing that it’ll be lost on the creature. “Suppose you’re going to make sandwiches next, are you?”

The dog merely lets out a huff again. This time it manages to get the door open and sticks its head inside, pulling out an unopened pack of biscuits. McVitie’s Chocolate Hobnobs. Those are _John’s._

Without quite making a conscious decision about it, Sherlock finds himself walking forward and reaching out a hand in an effort to get the packet from the dog. It doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the attempt, however, and nimbly ducks under his arm as it jumps back down to the floor, plastic wrapping clenched between its teeth.

It doesn’t get far, though, before he grabs it by the scruff of its neck and hauls it up to eye level. It hangs there, biscuit packet in mouth and an expression on its face that could be said to be amused.

The feeling of familiarity sweeps over Sherlock again and this time, he can pinpoint why. The dog reminds him of John; not only the eyes, but the attitude and especially the way it deals with him is very much like John. Something stirs inside him; something slow and warm and unpleasantly pleasant.

The dog continues to look at him with an air of patience as if the fact that it’s hanging like this doesn’t bother it at all. The packet is getting covered with saliva, however, and Sherlock snags it from the jaw of the animal, ripping the wrapping in the process. A biscuit falls out and would have hit the floor if not for the dog snatching it out of the air on its way down. It is quickly gobbled up and a tongue comes out to lick its muzzle a couple of times, snatching up whatever crumbs is stuck there. A pointed glance at the packet leaves no doubt of its intentions.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” Sherlock asks, almost to himself. The dog’s ears flicker forward and back as though it’s answering in the affirmative. It kicks the air repeatedly and the man realizes it’s trying to get momentum, either to get back down or be able to reach the biscuits.

Sherlock puts the dog down and, gazing at it, considers for a moment. “We’ll share,” he decides and sits down at the clutter that is the kitchen table, putting a slide into the microscope in front of him. The biscuits he sets down next to it, grabbing one and taking a bite to munch on as he adjusts the lenses. He feels something nudging his leg and his hand goes down with the rest of the biscuit. It’s taken from him quickly.

Just as his hand had been working almost without his conscious consent when petting the animal, so the feeding of both himself and the dog goes mostly unnoticed by his higher brain functions, intent as they are on the slides in the microscope, and the packet is slowly emptied.

He looks away from his work at some point, noticing that dawn has crept up on him and then sped past. Looking down and then around finds no dog, but a few crumbs linger in several places.

This time he does not assume that the dog is gone. It is probably somewhere around the flat, making a nuisance of itself.

Then Sherlock’s eyes catches sight of something that he had missed before, which is odd; he normally doesn’t miss stuff but then, this item is such an everyday thing in the flat that its presence goes unnoticed. Still, he should have _noticed_.

He picks up John’s bomber jacket from its place on the hook, examining it for any sign that something is amiss. Nothing sticks out, except for a few dog hairs. They could be here because the dog has brushed up against it, but why would it bother jumping that high for nothing but a coat that it hasn’t otherwise molested?

Then something else registers and he stops, fingers unconsciously smoothing over the material of the jacket again and again. It is not only the animal’s eyes that seem eerily familiar; on its chest he remembers seeing the mottled skin of a scar where the fur has tried to grow back, but hasn’t quite managed it, leaving a bald spot with a few strands of fur.

He knows that scar. He knows it rather intimately, having examined it thoroughly on several occasions, with permission.

Mentally smacking himself for being so utterly _stupid_ , he abandons his experiment as well as the jacket to run up the stairs. The door to John’s room is neither locked nor even closed and so he bursts in. What he sees steals the breath from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback, you guys are wonderful.
> 
> A small note on something I didn't get into the story itself - John is an Akita because they were bred as bear-hunting dogs. They're also small and sturdy and quite headstrong. All of which fitted best with John's personality.
> 
> No beta or britpicker, faults and mistakes are all mine :)

There, in front of him on the bed, is the dog. Only it is not the dog; it’s turning into something else and the process is slow and if not agonizing, then at least painful judging by the look on the dog’s face.

It doesn’t go from one end to the other but rather from the extremities in. The toes on the paws stretch as if the joints are growing, the claws slowly paling as they retract and broaden into something resembling nails. Most of the fur seems to retract into the body as well, leaving only the follicles that a human normally uses.

From there the limbs start in on growing too. There is a horrible cracking sound as the hind legs have their knees inverted into the bipedal bend and the creature lets out a whining growl that sounds like some strange hybrid of animal and human vocal chords. The growl only intensifies with the retraction of the tail; it slowly dwindles until it resembles the human coccyx and then retracts further into the body.

Sherlock’s eyes are hurting from the lack of moisture; the transformation process has taken several minutes already and he has not blinked in that time. How can he? There is so much information to take in and if he blinks, he might miss something crucial. That will not do.

The face of the dog has begun changing now; the ears began shrinking at the same time as the paws, rounding and flattening against the skull, but only now is the rest of the head transforming. The nose twitches as it pales and begins to slowly change to a very familiar snub nose. Another whine, this one sounding even more pained, reverberates through the changing body as the teeth grind together, losing the sharpness of canine teeth. Along with this, the jaw twists as it starts to change along with the upper part of the mouth.

By the time the face and head looks human again, the transformation is complete. Sherlock realizes with a sense of irritation that in focusing on the face he has missed the torso returning to a human male. A very distinct scar is clearly visible.

John looks at him, but at first the eyes are unfocused and clouded as if he is not really there yet. A couple of blinks, though, and he seems to snap back into himself. He focuses on Sherlock and for once, that usually expressive face is shuttered, as though John does not know what to think of finding his flatmate in the room with him and does not want to give away anything.

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity; John on his hands and knees on his bed and Sherlock standing just inside the room, one hand on the doorknob and the other frozen in an unconscious attempt to reach out.

Eventually John clears his throat. “So...,” he begins, sounding a little bit awkward, but mostly just tired out, which isn’t surprising given the whole ordeal. “You saw that. Right. Not that I don’t appreciate you neither freaking out on me nor bringing out all the measuring equipment or whatever, but... could you just, possibly, oh, I don’t know, _get out_?”

Sherlock blinks, ignoring the way it hurts and relieves at the same time after being without moisture for so long. “Why?” he asks.

“Because I’m naked, Sherlock!“ the doctor barks, clearly annoyed with the lack of understanding. Sherlock notices, however, that though John has settled into a kneeling position, he has made no move to cover himself. It is as hard not to notice as it is to tear his gaze away. “I should _not_ have to explain why that requires privacy. Out. _Out!_ ”

The detective doesn’t move for a moment then, when it looks like John is really going to get angry with him, backs away out of the room, remembering to close the door on his way out.

Once outside, Sherlock stops. His mind is almost overloaded with the information he has gleaned from watching John transform and it’s scrambling to organize it. More than that, though, there is a warm, yet squeezing feeling in his heart and his body has also...reacted to seeing his friend and flatmate in the nude.

It takes him a moment to realize this last thing; caught up as he is in the data he’s been given it does not register until he moves a leg slightly and the tightness of his trousers makes itself known.

He frowns but is interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of John moving around his room, looking for somewhere with actual clean clothes by the sound of it. Sherlock knows he should move – he should do _something_ to alleviate the tension that has settled into the flat, but he finds himself at a loss as to what that should be. Once again, his lack of skill in as well as his lack of care for the social conventions is a hindrance.

Tea. That’s it, tea. He should put the kettle on. It is such a cliché, but John does always seem to feel infinitely better after a properly prepared cup of tea.

He takes care to walk slowly and carefully down the stairs so as not to cause unwanted...friction.

 

* * *

 

 

The water in the electric kettleis just starting its merry rumble of boiling when John emerges into the living room, fully dressed apart from bare feet. The morning light filtering in through the windows illuminates the surprisingly still somewhat dishevelled hair and makes the shadows on his face starker.

Sherlock only looks briefly, though, turning towards the kettle and pouring out water into a mug. He stands there while the teabag steeps, then adds the appropriate amount of sugar. The milk he leaves out as it had been more black than white when he looked at it.

When he turns around, mug in hand, John has practically collapsed into his chair, eyes closed. There are hairs on the part of his jeans that touches the seat.

The doctor opens his eyes at the clearing of a throat and looks up to see a mug in front of him. He takes it carefully and notes something. “No milk?”

“You’re always on about how you don’t want to become an experiment by imbibing something hazardous and I do believe black milk with white lumps does qualify.” Sherlock takes care to phrase his words as he normally would, even as there are other things filling up his mind.

John smiles at that which adds to the warm feeling inside Sherlock’s chest that hasn’t abated. “I don’t suppose there are any biscuits left either?” He seems serious, but there is humour lurking in his eyes.

“Not unless you want the last one covered in saliva.”

“Ah, no, think I’ll skip that one, if it’s all the same.” He pauses to take a sip of the tea, grimacing a little as the still too hot liquid burns his tongue. “Think I had enough of them earlier, truth be told.”

He pauses again, looking his friend in the eye. Sherlock can see a plea not to say anything about what has happened right now while at the same time daring him to do so. John is waiting for the slew of deductions to come flying.

Much to John’s surprise, the younger Holmes not only keeps quiet but smiles at him; a genuine smile of the kind that he doesn’t often give. With that, he turns back to the kitchen and the experiment he still has there.

Sherlock knows John is watching him as he sits down but chooses to pretend that he doesn’t. He is trying to give the doctor some space; show that he _can_ respect him and his wishes and wait until his friend has gathered himself. He can do that for him. He can.

John eventually sighs and picks up his computer, tapping away at the keys and grumbling to himself. In the kitchen Sherlock finds himself relaxing without conscious thought. John is home and is making noise. Things are back to what they should be.

The rest of the morning is spent with each fiddling with their respective pastimes; John doesn’t have a shift at the clinic and there is no case. Not that Sherlock isn’t kept busy, both with his concoctions in the kitchen and the logistics of _how_ exactly such a transformation is possible.

At some point after noon John gets up and puts on the jacket Sherlock has left on the floor. The detective seems absorbed in his work and so John slips unnoticed out the door.

About an hour later he returns, laden with grocery bags and one bag of takeaway food.After putting away the groceries, he picks up a few plates and some chopsticks. He spares at glance at his friend, but Sherlock seems engrossed by the work, so John goes into the living room to clear a space on the coffee table for their lunch and plate up.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is not as engrossed in his work as he appears; rather he has been listening to John since he came home, trying to work out when exactly it is a good time to broach the subject of John’s well-kept shape shifter secret.

“Lunch, Sherlock,” the doctor eventually calls, plonking himself down in his chair and picking up his own plate.

“Not hungry.”

“ _Lunch_ ,” John repeats, the steely tone of an order unmistakeable in his voice.” _Now._ ”

After a moment, Sherlock rises and walks into the living room. He truly does not want to eat, but this is clearly the way John is choosing to broach the subject. So be it.

Therefore he sits himself down, picks up his plate of chicken lo mein and takes a mouthful, watched as he is by the man in the other chair. He eats another mouthful and another and John smiles around his own chopsticks at that. He does not object when the detective stops eating.

Sherlock watches John eat, an activity which shouldn’t hold as much fondness as it does, and only when the plate is empty does John set it down. He fixes the other with a look that is so quintessential John that Sherlock almost laughs; eyes slightly wide, eyebrows risen and yet drawn, lips slightly pursed even as the corners of the mouth is set. In its own slightly deadpan way, it says ‘ _Well, go on, then. I’m listening_.’

Now, when he has the chance to ask, Sherlock almost doesn’t know where to start with his questions; there are so many. So, quite uncharacteristically, he blurts the first one that comes to mind.

“Shouldn’t you be…bigger? I admit I am not…an expert on such things, but what I...know indicates something larger.” The somewhat miffed tone is unmistakable; Sherlock does not like not knowing something that he deems useful or having information that turns out to be wrong.

John can’t help his smile; you can see it tugging at the corners of his mouth even as he tries to stop it. “You know, somehow it doesn’t surprise me that out of all the questions you could ask, you would pick one that doesn’t occur to anyone else.”

“Empirical evidence takes care of most of them, John.” Only as he says it does it dawn on him how true that is.

“Suppose so,” John replies, shrugging slightly. “But you’re still referring to a myth – a myth that is mostly built up by popular media, I might add.”

“It does say were _wolf_ , though, not were _dog_. Also...” the detective trails off.

“What?”

Sherlock mumbles something.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that, I’m afraid.” It’s obvious that John is enjoying himself just the teensiest bit.

“The breed is all wrong.” The younger Holmes glares a bit at having to repeat himself.

“The breed is...? Of all the things – what did you expect, some sort of retriever?” Silence greets him. “You did, didn’t you?” His tone is clearly half astonished, half bemused.

The silence resumes for a brief moment. Then, even more peeved than before; “I have not imagined you as any kind of dog. Until now, that notion would have been downright ludicrous.”

“Yes. Ludicrous. Except that it’s real.” He sees a frown appear on his friend’s face. “Oh, lighten up, Sherlock. It’s not that big a deal, having a bit of an imagination. I’d be more worried if you didn’t have any. The whole Mind Palace thing you have? That takes imagination.”

“There’s imagination and then there are flights of fancy,” Sherlock retorts. “The thought of your flatmate as a shape shifting... _thing_ definitely falls under the latter!” Not that he objects to this revelation. Quite the reverse, if the warmth and pounding in his chest is to be believed.

He does not get a verbal response to that, but the way John’s eyebrows knit together and his mouth sets in a very pointed way is more than telling.

“...Not good?” he asks quietly.

“Being called a thing? Yeah, I think that definitely falls under ‘not good’.” The disapproval and anger seems to slowly ebb out of John until he at last shrugs a shoulder. “Though to be honest I’ve been called worse by people over the years.”

“Others have seen...this?” There is something rather unpleasant settling in Sherlock’s stomach at the thought of that. This is something special and that others have seen this and he has not until now...

John lets out a rather exasperated sigh. “I’m nearly forty, Sherlock; _of course_ others have seen it. For one, there’s the hormonal instability of your teenage years. It’s not something that I like to broadcast now, though.”

“The army? It can’t have been –“

“Oh, they knew,” the doctor interrupts. “Can’t have a shape shifter in service without the government knowing, can we? We are registered, mostly for our own health and safety. Ask Mycroft if you don’t believe me.” He smiles again, this time without much humour. “It was part of the reason he kidnapped me the first time I met him.” He inwardly shivers; it’s a meeting he would rather not remember.

“But you...haven’t in all the time here...” It is clear that Sherlock is on the verge of retreating into his Mind Palace, letting his mind work out the whys. It’s also clear that that fact bothers him and greatly so.

Hesitating, John eventually answers. “...Well, yes and no. I have, but not here. Couldn’t really risk you finding hairs in the flat, now could I?” He brushes a few off of his jeans to illustrate his point.

“Then why did you do it now? What triggers it? Not the moon, surely?”

A bark of a laugh escapes the doctor, surprised out of him. “No, that’s pure myth. Thank god for that – can you imagine the embarrassment of that? It’s different things for different people, really, as with most things. For me, it’s mostly emotional distress and likewise highs, utter exhaustion too. Comfort, sometimes.”

“Comfort?”

“The simplicity of the form, really; I am still me, but I operate on a much more instinctual level than I ever could as a human. It’s a welcome relief.”

Sherlock has no trouble imagining that at all.

“So...why now? It can’t be exhaustion, since we haven’t had a proper case lately and your shifts at the clinic don’t wear you out. You have no girlfriend to cause distress. So...” He stops at the expression he sees on his flatmate’s face. “John?”

“It’s a...a...” the doctor tries and then falters.

“A what?” Sherlock is strangely anxious for the answer.

“A show of trust, damn you! It’s that I trust you with this knowledge now.” “Why?” “Wh-? Only you, Sherlock!” The doctor makes an aborted move of flinging up his hands in frustration. “Only you would be so fantastically brilliant and yet so utterly, phenomenally stupid! Why do people trust others?”

“There are a lot of reasons, most of them based on their own needs or wants,” Sherlock answers promptly in a curt manner that he honestly cannot help. “But none of them answers why you trust me with this knowledge now. After all, you have trusted me with your life since the day we met. There is hardly any bigger trust than that, so why has this been so important to keep secret? Why does this qualify as a bigger show of trust to you than your life?” He finds that his voice has become gradually softer as he’s continued talking.

John opens his mouth to argue but stops, face twisting into an expression of someone who has a home truth pointed out to them and does not much like it. It is an expression that Sherlock has become only too familiar with throughout his life and one that he doesn’t particularly care for.

But John – blessed, wonderful, amazing John – does what very few people ever have. He ducks his head and when he lifts it, it’s with a smile on his face. It’s a small, slightly tight, somewhat wry smile, but a smile nevertheless and it loosens something inside the taller man, making his heart beat faster.

“I hate to admit it, but there’s some truth in that,” John says. He leans back in his chair, fixes his gaze on the ceiling and stares at it for a while. He seems to be weighing his options.

Sherlock waits him out; whatever is going to come next, it’s going to be important and worth waiting for. It almost feels like the last clue of the puzzle and in some part of his head, he’s kicking himself for not being able to work it out on his own. He’s supposed to notice things and it irks him that John has worked out something that he hasn’t.

On the other hand, this is to do with the things that the younger Holmes has tried very hard all his life _not_ to have to deal with and so it stands to reason that it would be John who is the expert on these matters. Therefore he will wait, whatever his treacherous body says.

After what seems like absolute ages the doctor lowers his head again. His face is as neutral as it is possible for John to get it and he seems to be studying Sherlock’s face as much as Sherlock is his.

“It’s different for one reason,” he begins, speaking slowly and carefully. “Trusting you with my life is simple; it’s not only more instinctual, but if I misjudge, then...well, that’s it, really, isn’t it? Being dead doesn’t really leave you with a lot of complications afterwards. Trusting you with the fact that I’m a shape shifter, though...if I misjudged that, then it could mean serious complications for me.”

“You think that I would knowingly put you in harm’s way? That I would experiment on you?” That thought hurts more than Sherlock would ever care to admit.

“What?” John looks genuinely taken aback. “No, of course not!”

“Then why?”

John stares at the other for a moment. “I keep forgetting that you’ve got no way of knowing these things. Sorry. Letting others see you in your changed stage – that is a sign of trust and friendship, but letting others see you actually go through the transformation itself is more than that. It’s something...” he hesitates briefly, then continues, “...something _far_ more intimate and not just because of the nudity.” He offers a weak, unsure smile, trying to gauge the reaction of his friend.

It takes a moment, but you can see the gears working inside that massive brain; picking out the information he has been given and piecing the things together. It’s not only the fact that John let him see something as important as that. It’s a lot of much more intangible things, such as the looks he got from John as a dog and the way it seemed perfectly content when it was bedded down on top of him as if it couldn’t think of a better place to be, among other things.

When he is done, Sherlock looks at John, new understanding in his eyes.

“You...” For some reason, the words are hard to articulate.

“Yeah...and you?”

The detective weighs the options he has. He can ignore all of this, chalk it up to friendship and sentiment and let that be the end of it. That would certainly be the easier and more convenient way, for both their sakes, even if the doctor is going to be hurt temporarily. The other option presents far more complications and areas of uncertainty for Sherlock – is he really ready for something like that?

It feels profoundly wrong, however, to see the usually so confident John cautious and unsure. Sherlock isn’t good at sentiment, but he can try. He does not want to lose the pleasant warmth in his chest and he will not lose John for anything. So he will try.

His silence is taken as an answer in and of itself and John sighs. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock halts his attempt to get up with a raised hand. “I...really liked having something curled up on my chest,” he begins. It isn’t the most romantic way of phrasing things, but by the look on John’s face he understands.

“Yeah? Well, I’m sure we can arrange for that to happen every so often.” With that, he does get up, but only to lean over and plant a kiss on Sherlock’s lips.When he tries to pull back, though, the younger Holmes makes a rather undignified noise in the back of his throat and, tangling his fingers in the small hairs on the back of John’s neck, pulls him back down.

The momentum of the pull shifts John’s balance and he stumbles forward, one leg landing on the table; more specifically on the half-finished plate of food. John can’t bring himself to care, though. This has been too long in coming.

When they part, Sherlock is wearing a slightly dazed expression, but is smiling. His hands are planted firmly on John with no intention of letting go anytime soon.

They’ll get to more profound declarations later. For now, he is content to explore his ever surprising flatmate as much as he possibly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and I do hope the chapter has not been a let-down. It was just meant to be a short, sweet little story. :) Not saying I might not do something with it later. Also, I first wrote their dialogue beginning with 'shouldn't you' and then filled in - that was a new one :)
> 
> Feedback is as always loved and treasured dearly :)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh and for infrequent story snippets and for possible prompts, here's my tumblr: elphenfan.tumblr.com


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